Scarla (15 page)

She forced the briefcase shut, snapped the locks, and Rattan lunged. She caught his reflection in the machine’s glass, just in time. She spun, raising the case and deflecting his swing, the scalpel glancing off the aluminum. He grimaced at his broken wrist, raised his arm for another slash. She nailed him under the chin with the case’s corner, snapping his head back. Blood spewed from his mouth. He spit the tip of his tongue at her and swung again, but she sidestepped, slamming the press door on his wrist. He screamed. She dropped the case, grabbed the back of his head, smashed his face through the glass. He staggered back, still holding the scalpel, one eyeball sliced in two, jagged shards jutting from his face.
“Fuck you,
whore!”
he growled, swinging again. She caught his arm and spun him, using his own momentum to bury the blade in his throat. He made a gurgling noise, then fell silent. She let go, watching him stand for what seemed an eternity. The elevator doors opened. She peered over Rattan’s shoulder. Ray Smith stepped out, impeccably suited.
Creepy fucker, perfect timing.
She was just getting warmed up, and had a feeling he’d want a shot at the title. She waited for him to register the scene, then put her boot on Rattan’s back and kicked him forward. He splatted facedown, dead.

Smith smiled, showing his mangled grill.
“Treffen wir uns wieder.”

“I speak English,” she called, her voice echoing off the walls.

Smith studied her. “As do
I.
I’m sorry if my German confused you.”

She lifted the briefcase, watching him close, neither of them moving from where they stood. “You must be
Ray Smith,”
she offered. He just smiled. “Looks like you had a little accident,” she jabbed.

His smile faded. “As did
you,
apparently,” he shot back.

She nodded to Rattan. “Take it up with my boss.”

Smith approached, slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. “That seems rather pointless now. And what do I make of
our
working relationship?” he asked.

She drifted to her right, within arm’s reach of Harris’ operating tools. “We don’t
have
a working relationship. I work with Facil LeTour.”

Smith arched that brow, kept coming. “The former lieutenant? You need a new handler, my dear.”

She rolled her head on her shoulders, felt the gears shift with a pop, new horsepower tingling like rain through her body. Her pupils dilated, pulse raced, lips parted for deeper breaths. “Fuck that. If he’s out, so am I.” Then, louder.
“Stop right there.”

Smith stopped, clicked his heels, fixed her with that queer gaze.
“Shame,
I was very much looking forward to working with you.”

She shrugged. “Can’t always get what you want.”

He took a step. “I suppose not.”

“I said
stop.”

He ignored her, that smile creeping back across his lips. “And if I choose not to?”

She wasn’t about to play his games. She still had to find a way out of the building, and the sooner she was alone—just her and the six hundred cops upstairs—the sooner she could think. She dropped the briefcase, charged him. Smith assumed combat stance, launching a high kick at her head as she rushed in. She dropped under it, swept his leg. He was ready for it, back-flipping back to his base and thrust-kicking at her face. She caught his foot, turned his ankle, sent him spinning through the air. He landed back at step one, reset, winked at her. She stood up, hiding her surprise. They stared at each other.

“You learn that with CDC?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t,” he replied, barely out of breath.

“I didn’t think so.” Pause. Her forearms stung like hell, she was sure she’d broken her stitches. “What now?”

His eyes sparkled. “Let’s dance.” He cracked his neck, limbering up.
“My lead.”

He charged her with both fists. She swatted every punch away, backpedaling into Marlene Schneider’s hanging corpse. Smith launched a high back kick and she ducked it. His foot broke Marlene’s tibia clean in half, landing in the tub of blood under the body. Scarla backed off again. He looked down, grimaced, lifted his foot. His pant leg was soaked halfway up the calf. He shook it off, visibly upset. “I just bought these shoes, they’re very comfortable.” Scarla watched him, unsure what to make of the guy. He smiled again, kicking his wet shoe at her face like a missile. She ducked it and he rushed in, fists and feet flying. He ran a clinic, almost catching her several times, and she identified a dizzying array of martial arts in his style. He seemed to effortlessly switch forms moveto-move, keeping her off-balance and on the defensive. Unable to mount any offense, she forward-rolled to her left, popped back to her feet and caught him with a side kick to the ribs. He grunted, doubled-over, surprised. A split-second was all she needed to lock in a guillotine choke, hooking his leg with hers and taking him down. She arched her back, squeezing with all her might. He stopped struggling and fell limp. Before she knew it, he’d slipped the choke. He nailed her with an elbow to the temple that bounced her head off the concrete floor, then another that shut off the lights. When she came to moments later, he was standing over her, foot raised for the kill strike. She’d been stripped nude, jeans pulled down around her ankles. She stared at him with indifference, struggling to focus, the room swirling. He held her gaze … and the final blow along with it.

“Did you see it?” he asked, eyes full of wonder.

“See what?” she replied, resigned.

“Your life. Flashing before you. They say it happens in the very last moment.”

She shrugged. “Guess it wasn’t the moment.”

He lowered his foot, bending down to leer at her.
“Ich bin der Geber des Todes.”

More theatrics. She rolled her eyes, still seeing stars.

“What?”

He smirked with self-satisfaction, spoke deliberately. “It means … I am the giver …
of death.”

She nodded, tired of fighting, white hot shots of pain electrifying her skull.
A surefire mother of a concussion.
“Well, let’s have it, Adolf,” she slurred.

He studied her with pursed lips, shaking his head, sparing the death blow still.
“Humanity.
Such a vile and repugnant species. So weak, so offensive, so
worthy
of the extinction coming to you.”

He used
you,
as if he were something else. Something
other
than human. She let him continue. The room spun slower, the stars dimming a bit.

“And
you
…
the Whore of Babylon.
You can’t honestly tell me, after what you’ve done to yourself, that you disagree. If you
do,
you’re the
worst
example of self-justification. To so willingly sacrifice what little dignity and virtue you had, and for
what?
Do you even
know?
Do you even
care?”

Ok, fuck it. Let’s play.

“I did it for love. So he wouldn’t be remembered as a monster,” she whispered. “I thought I could make a difference. But it changed. Everything changed.”

Smith straightened, pondering her words.
“Landon Caul
ner.”
He smiled again. “That’s what you named
love,
correct?”

She nodded, still lying flat. He could’ve been oiling a chainsaw, it wouldn’t have mattered. She just didn’t care. He scoffed at her confession, clapping his hands.
“Oh, the self-importance!
Do you
really
believe your ordeal is unique? There’s one of you in
every
city now. Sacrificing, to make a difference. To make it better. For your own selfish reasons. Poor misguided sheep.” He leaned close again. “And for every
one
of you, there’s a
thousand
of us.
Two
thousand tomorrow. It’s too late. All your best and worst efforts will only come to futility.” He eyed her body, a peculiarly long tongue flicking his lips.
Like a lizard.
“Did you offer your body and soul because you felt
too much?
Or because you felt
nothing at all?”
She realized, for the first time since waking, she was naked. The butterflies fluttered in her stomach, nerve endings tingling head-to-toe, gooseflesh rising on her thighs. She saw his eyes on her body and it made her wet.
Careful what you ask for, you might get it.
He shed his coat on the floor, undid his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. “It doesn’t matter now, the gestation is complete. It’s finally time. The law of natural order is upon you.
You,
the virus species. So ignorant as to refute your own animal status, while at the same time being completely unable to control the basest instincts that drive you. Your
helplessness
is our
strength.
The
strong
devour the
weak.
The reaping is upon you, and for this you should be thankful. Thankful to be
saved
from your own extinction.
Saved
from the obsolescence you brought upon yourselves, and transformed into something
greater.
Something—,” he undid his belt,
“—magnificent.”

She watched him unzip, saw his pants drop around his ankles, heard the
hiss.
She didn’t process it at first sight, blinking as though she were hallucinating and it would disappear, but she wasn’t. And it wouldn’t. It hung past his knees, over two feet long, as thick as his forearm, its head dark, bulbous, roving. It didn’t move like any dick she’d ever seen, slithering around, sidling against his right thigh, snaking along his left, arcing up to stand fully erect, then sidewinding back down, as if it were surveying its surroundings.
Or hunting prey.

Smith stripped his shirt, kicked off his pants, stepped over her in nothing but his socks. He yanked her jeans from around her ankles and threw them aside, leaving her in nothing but her boots and bandages. The thing stretched back between his legs, curling along his ass crack, head swiveling. She swore it was watching her. Its big sphincter yawned wide, snapped shut, yawned again.
Like a hungry mouth.
She stared into the black hole, dumbstruck.
Run! Fight! Scream!
were just some of her brain’s commands, but her body wouldn’t listen. She’d never been in shock, as far as she could remember and throughout everything, so she guessed it was finally introducing itself.
Talk about bad timing.
Smith kicked her feet apart and knelt between her legs, petting and stroking the thing, as it purred and writhed of its own accord. “I’m going to enjoy this
far
more than you will, I can assure you of that,” he gloated. She still couldn’t move but was dripping wet, heart racing as he hiked her legs up. “Thank you for your service, Ms. Fragran. This city greatly appreciates your
sacrifice.”
He positioned himself and the thing plunged in on its own. She opened her mouth to scream, whether in terror or ecstasy not quite clear, but no sound came. The shaft rippled, digging deeper. She held her breath, eyes on the ceiling. Smith placed her legs on either side of his face, licking her calves with his freakishly long tongue, glazing them with saliva. He pounded her salaciously, harder with each thrust, but somehow seemed to be just along for the ride, the thing
pulling him
more than he was
pushing it.

Scarla winced, feeling it snake impossibly deep inside her, and against all sane logic, she
liked
it. She reached around to grab Smith’s cheeks and force it deeper still, screaming, her neck veins bulging blue. He watched her with wide eyes, drool oozing from his mouth. He could’ve orgasmed right there, but he wasn’t in charge.
It
was.
It
said when he could cum.
It
said when he’d had enough. And
it
said
keep fucking her, she likes it, she wants it, she needs it, fuck her faster, fuck her harder, fuck her deeper, fuck her ’til she cries, fuck her ’til she begs, fuck her ’til she bleeds, fuck her to death, kill her, eat her, kill her, eat her, kill her, eat.
He bit her calf, drawing blood with the new teeth he’d sprouted since entering her. She felt the sting and raised her head, watched a crimson trickle escape his lip, streak over her knee and up her thigh, disappearing in the soft wet mound that was being brutalized between her long legs. He watched her dazed expression, grinning with bloody teeth. She met his gaze with blazing white eyes. His face dropped. She clamped a leg scissors choke around his neck and pushed up on her hands, lifting off the floor and flexing her whole body, trapping the thing inside her with powerful Kegel muscles. It bucked, thrashed, tried to pull out, swirled around in her vaginal canal looking for escape … and felt
great.
Smith tried to scream, but her legs squeezed tighter, cutting off what air he had left. His face went purple and he tried to bite, but couldn’t turn his head far enough either way to find flesh. He swung at her with long clawed fingernails. She caught his wrist and broke it. He couldn’t scream. He swung the other arm, she broke it too. She squeezed harder, watching him turn blue, and the thing inside her went wild. She feared it would burst from her stomach if she didn’t get it out, but it felt so strange, especially when it panicked, she couldn’t help hanging on just a bit longer to explore the sensation. And just like that, she came.

Her body stiffened, shuddered, mouth open in silent ecstasy. She arched up on her shoulders, snapping Ray Smith’s neck like an afterthought.
Auf Wiedersehen, du Arschloch. Wait, you don’t know German.
It didn’t matter. Smith fell limp, but the thing inside her was still very much alive. She felt it coiling and springing, jabbing at her insides, trying to punch its way out. She opened her legs, letting Ray Smith flop like a rag doll, still puppeted by his monster appendage. Truth be told, it
was
a monster, the best fuck she’d had in forever.
But all good things must come to an end.
She put her boot heels on Smith’s chest, tried to kick him off, but the thing dug in like it was trying to burrow out the other side.
Fine, have it your way. The hard way.
She eyed Harris’ surgical instruments on the table behind her, started walking backward on her hands, dragging Smith’s dead weight between her legs. The thing kept plunging furiously and she had to pause halfway to cum again, fists clenched, eyelids fluttering.
Goddamn.
She knew deep down something was very wrong, she’d have to kill it and get out of there, find a safe haven to take stock of the damage, and there very well may be nothing left to salvage when all was said and done. But a wise man once told her a fight wasn’t over until you couldn’t get up, so never back off, never back down, never give up.
Live by that shit.
She reached up, grabbed the tabletop, pulled herself up. She wondered if Smith’s dead weight would drag the thing out, but that was too easy. His body just came along for the ride as the thing burrowed deeper. They were as one, for the time being. She flung herself facedown on the table and held on, groaning as the thing jackhammered her bladder. Urine splattered Smith, ran down her leg, mingled with the blood on the floor. She hoisted him, laid him on the table and climbed on top, straddling his corpse on the cold steel. She could see just fine, though her eyes were still eerily pupil-less. Marlene Schneider stared from across the table. She smacked the bitch, sent her head bouncing across the floor. The surgical tools were in front her. She wondered if the thing was aware, if it knew weapons were within her reach.
Don’t be stupid, just kill the fucking thing.